Final Coup. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ and probably the airstrips used by the Cameroonian military forces. The structure was not nearly as architecturally pleasing or as well kept as the passengers’ terminal had been, but it was in a lot better shape than that building was going to be for a long time after the flames died down.

      The Executioner looked over his shoulder at the still-burning airplane, far in the distance now. The old adage “between the devil and the deep blue sea” crossed his mind. But, somehow, that old saying didn’t quite sum up his, or his team’s, current situation.

      It seemed far more likely that they were between two different kinds of hell.

      The Chieftain was even farther away now than it had been before it finished off the airplane. But it was still following the jeeps across the runways toward the rough commercial buildings. And the same hair and eyes had risen again through the hatch.

      Finally on flatter land, the Executioner once again rested the Desert Eagle on the jeep’s rear ledge and lined up the sights, allowing for even more bullet drop this time. Slowly, without allowing the big .44’s barrel to waver in the slightest, he squeezed the trigger.

      The “scream of the Eagle” was still in his ears as the head sticking out of the British tank literally exploded like a watermelon. The tank ground to a halt. Three more men inside the old and battered war vehicle panicked and, rather than remain within the relative safety of the tank, pushed the headless man out through the exit hole. Clad in a variety of different patterned camouflage, OD-green BDU pants and blouses, and T-shirts, jeans and khaki work pants, they followed the corpse and dropped to the ground.

      Bolan picked off all three of them as their boots hit the tarmac. The advance of the tank had ended, and with that failure, the sporadic sniper shots, which had already begun to die down from the flaming terminal, ended too.

      “Stop the jeep,” Bolan ordered.

      The driver hit the brakes.

      The big American leaped from the jeep. The Desert Eagle still in his hand, he whirled in a quick 360-degree scan of the area.

      The snipers he hadn’t already killed had fled the fiery inferno that had once been the terminal building. And the four men who had managed the Chieftain were dead. But as the rest of his American team and the army troops hopped over the sides of their vehicles, Bolan knew one thing for certain.

      The enemy might have drawn the short stick here, in this battle, but the war was far from over.

      Bolan and his team jumped back into the jeep, and the driver led the convoy on.

      2

      The initial meeting with Prime Minister Jean Antangana, other chiefs of state, and Cameroonian cabinet members who had not fled with ex-President Robert Menye, had been transferred to the commercial area of the airport as soon as the gunfire had broken out. The jeeps stopped in front of a cruder, more industrial-looking Quonset hut.

      Bolan had replenished the Desert Eagle with a full magazine and now held it in his right hand, resting across his lap. He took notice of the fact that John Lareby, who was seated in front of him in the jeep, still had his Walther unholstered, while he gripped Grimaldi’s shoulder with his other hand.

      The ace pilot had fallen asleep.

      A swarthy man wearing the trappings of a colonel strutted out the front door and instinctively walked toward Bolan. “I am Colonel Luc Pierre Essam,” he said as he shrugged back his shoulders in pride and extended his hand to the Executioner. “I am in charge of the military protection squads, and it was my men who just saved you.”

      Bolan just stared him in the eye as he transferred the Desert Eagle to his left hand and gripped Essam’s.

      It was CIA field agent Lareby who spoke next. “Well, I guess we can’t thank you enough for clarifying that misconception, Colonel Essam,” he said. “Until this minute, I’d have sworn that we pretty much saved ourselves.”

      The colonel’s smile faded. There was an awkward pause, and then he stepped back and said, “If you please, gentlemen. We are set up in a private room inside the hut.” He waved his hand toward the door.

      Bolan hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward Grimaldi. “Our pilot needs medical attention,” he said.

      Colonel Essam nodded. “I have already called for ambulances,” he said. “Your man will leave for the hospital in the first to arrive.”

      Bolan nodded his understanding, and he and the other men stepped down from the jeeps before following Essam into the building. Once inside, the Executioner finally holstered his .44. There was a short row of bunk beds that had been slept in but not made, and he had to remind himself that while tidiness was insisted upon to instill discipline in the armed forces of the U.S., that was not the case in many Third World countries.

      Essam opened the door to a large room. Bolan led the way inside and saw a variety of men already seated around a long conference table. Some wore suits and ties. Others were decked out in dress uniforms or battle gear. But no two sets of BDUs matched—in some cases, not even the blouse and pants on the same soldiers.

      In short, they were barely better dressed than the terrorists who had attacked the aircraft.

      With oil, timber and coffee exports, Cameroon’s economy was better than many other African nations. But “good” was a relative term. The mismatched uniforms meant the army was scrounging out its existence as best it could. And as mismatched as the uniforms were, Bolan knew from experience that with egomaniacs like Menye, the troops “ate first.” He had yet to meet any of Cameroon’s civilians, but he knew they would be in even worse shape than these military men.

      The pompous Colonel Essam escorted Bolan to an empty chair just to the right of the head of the table. The other men found open seats among the Cameroonians still loyal to their prime minister.

      “Gentlemen,” Essam said as he moved to the head of the table but remained standing. “We are in what English-speaking people call ‘dire straits.’ Does everyone know what I mean by that?”

      The men around the table nodded.

      “Then I will turn this meeting over to Prime Minister Jean Antangana,” Essam said. “But I would like to say one more thing first. To the men in this room who serve directly under me within the security force—the Americans who have just entered the room are in charge. And you will obey their orders. I do not like this any more than any other man would like having to call upon an outside nation for help, but that is, unfortunately, the case.” He stopped speaking for a moment and looked toward Bolan. “I am sure the Americans understand our hesitancy.”

      Bolan, and the other newcomers to the room, nodded.

      “Nevertheless,” Essam restated, “that is the reality of the situation. We need their expertise, and they have graciously agreed to provide it.” He stepped back from the seat and a coffee-colored man of mixed race, wearing a blue business suit, white shirt and paisley tie took his place.

      Essam moved to the chair the man had just vacated, directly across from Bolan.

      The soldier could see that the prime minister was sick before he even opened his mouth.

      Jean Antangana cleared his throat and his chest sounded as if marbles were rattling around against one another. “For those of you who have graciously СКАЧАТЬ